Between the Sand and Stone
by xXSilent-CrescendoXx
Summary: Recently, cement had been set in the form of pictures, of secrets and songs and sharing themselves not out of obligation, but out of raw emotion and pure, unselfish trust – something they'd both never allowed themselves to indulge in before. - He'd told her she wasn't alone, and he'd meant it.


**AN: So. Here I am, here you are. We're in this together; as fans (and, I'm assuming, Tiva shippers), we have to be. He's so in love, you can see it in every move, every mirrored action and glance, and I'm starting to not be able to take it. She loves him too, and she's even told him so (Come on, the Star Wars reference in 'Shiva' – admitting her love with a movie quote, no less). So, yeah, they're in love, but it's not going to happen yet because she's still broken and he's trying to hold both himself and her together so that they make it through this latest development with enough emotional stability to accept each other as they are meant to. Ugh, I honestly feel like an author's note is not the right place for all this fangirling, so I'll stop now. But, before you read on, I'd just like to say thanks so much to all of you who've read, reviewed, favourited, alerted etc... both my other NCIS fics. 'Sides of The Bed' has received, so far, 25 reviews, the highest amount I've ever gotten for such little writing, and you've all been so generous with the feedback. Just... thank you so much, and I hope that you all enjoy this too. :D**

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Chapter One: She is not alone.

The golden, glowing Israeli sunset cast a benevolent haze over the sandy plains and hills, each grain of sand glittering gently. The only sounds were those of the rustling leaves and other disinterested flora and fauna. It seemed worlds away from Tel Aviv, though with a steady squint she could still see the city's skyline in the distance. The faintly scented breeze was slight, not even anything close to the harsh winds of Washington. She wore a coat of cashmere black, but still she shivered.

The soil, soft as silk, fell silently from the steel knife to rest atop the lightly compacted earth that served as the foundations of her father's tree. An olive tree, her choice had been entirely intentional. For despite the hardships he had put her through, and there had been many, he had made something of an effort to reconnect over the past two years. After she'd written him off during his first time in D.C. since Somalia he'd surprised her with his words of loss. It had been a comfort to her to know that he was aware that it was Mossad that had done this to them. There had been happy memories before that job had taken over his life and forcing her, Tali, their mother, and Ari to take second place on his ever-growing list of priorities. Phone calls had followed; he had stunned the both of them by being the first one to dial. It had been true that in past months she had not been making as much of an effort to return his calls, though it had not been intentional. She had been fine with it, and had assumed he had been too.

She wished he had never come. She wished he had never gotten into her car to await her exit from the gym. She wished that he had never said those magical, much yearned for words to her only to have him completely shatter all of her hopes for a meaningful reconciliation. But most of all, she wished she didn't have to bury him here, in this almost obscenely beautiful place.

He did not deserve it.

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Sirens wailed relentlessly outside his windows, and not even the closed blinds could shut out the distinct red and blue flash of cop cars chasing pavements. The near silent buzz of the air conditioning was about as relaxing as a blast of white noise, and had the same level of soothing effect. Tony sighed languidly, shuffling his aching body to a more comfortable sleeping position, though he was fairly sure that slumber was going to continue to evade him until he knew she was back in America.

Here.

Home.

_Safe._

His bed smelled of her. The two nights she had spent with her head against his pillow and her body ensconced within his sheets had left their mark. Her shampoo, a delicate mix of cinnamon and some girly, fruity scent he could not identify had found themselves trapped within the high thread count bedding, and consequently, his Ziva schema. He couldn't remember what the label had said, though he'd checked it countless times whilst going through her apartment to collect her things to make sure it was the right one. He'd spent longer than he'd intended to in her apartment, certainly longer than had been necessary to go through her list and check it twice.

_Four shirts: the blue one with four buttons on the collar, dark green with puffed sleeves, plain black with loose neckline, dark grey with black shoulder straps. Five pairs of dress pants, I do not care which, just try to make them match. Underwear and bras for a week: plain, none of the fancy stuff. Five vest-tops and pyjama pants. Three scarves: Black, Black with red and yellow pattern, Dark green. Black coat. Dark blue blazer with black button. Toothbrush (the green one). Toothpaste. Floss. Deodorant, both spray and roll-on. Shampoo: Coconut and vanilla. Conditioner: matching. Hairbrush, hairbands, blow-dryer. Hair mousse. Book on the arm of the sofa. _

She'd been confused whilst writing the list, crossing things out and then rewriting them, the weight of the situation finally cracking her carefully put-together mask. Shmeil had been patient with her, suggesting things that were practical, though he had seemed a little uncomfortable when it became apparent she would not be remembering to put any form of undergarment on there any time soon and that he'd have to point it out. Tony had smirked, then immediately checked himself because as appealing as the idea of a braless Ziva walking through his apartment seemed to him, it had not been the time.

He had cast gentle hands through her wardrobe, smiling as he found clothes he recognised and looking curiously at the ones he did not. Where did she wear them? And who for? He'd laughed at her 'none of the fancy stuff', comment in regards to her underwear; what did she think he was going to do, bring over her fancy black lace? The white negligée with a red trim? He'd felt a momentary guilt over taking the time to admire her more racy underclothes, but had quickly brushed the thought aside after rationalising that despite everything she was going through, Ziva would feel no more than a slightly affronted amusement after he teased her about her nightwear; something he definitely planned to do after this all blew over.

Except that it wouldn't blow over, it couldn't.

Nothing could ever be the same.

They'd been through change, hell, they'd built their entire relationship – whatever it was - on change. Shifting sands had been the foundation on which they'd grown together; it went so as that they'd build something, and if it was decided that the shape of their connection was undesirable, they'd knock it right back down and start once more to sculpt, carrying the fractured pieces of what once had been as a memento of all that they did not want to be. Recently, cement had been set in the form of pictures, of secrets and songs and sharing themselves not out of obligation, but out of raw emotion and pure, unselfish trust – something they'd both never allowed themselves to indulge in before.

With good reason.

What had they had but heartbreak? What had he had but the premature death of a mother who'd loved him so wholly and the cruel sting of rejection from his father, who'd been more interested in Civil Wars and stepmothers? What had she had but the conflict between a mother and father who wanted the same thing through differing means and a forced, demanding obligation to her country? An obligation she'd never be able to let go of, because it had taken nearly everything from her.

He could only hope that what was left could ever be enough for her to hang on to. That Gibbs could provide the protection she so craved, McGee the almost funny awkwardness they all found endearing. Abby would drag the light back into her life if she let her, and he could...

He could be there. He could continue to help, to support, to _love _without expectation, because the knowledge that she was near and she was safe meant more to him than his desire to have and to hold her for all eternity. He'd told her she wasn't alone, and he'd meant it; as far as he was concerned, for as long as his heart was beating it could beat for the both of them. When she was weak he would be her strength. When he'd offered his home as her own to Gibbs he'd made the decision in his mind that for as long as she needed it, for as long as she _let _him do so, he'd be hers in any and every way she wanted.

Tony sighed, shifting over in bed once more, returning to the position he'd shunned only minutes before. The sirens still sounded, and the lights still flared. But there was now a stillness in his head, a certain solace that had come from admitting to himself that he hopelessly, irretrievably in love with the woman whose apparent death had sent him halfway across the world. He'd spent years running from the depth of his feelings for her, shielding himself from the inevitable.

He did eventually drift off, but it was to be a fitful slumber, plagued with barely coherent dreams and a cacophony of colours that meant nothing and everything at the same time. He slept out his sorrow, and with it cast out any doubt he had, any reservations about the road he was about to lead, into the oblivion of unconscious resolution, because he wanted nothing more than for Ziva to come back to a team that loved her as much as any blood ever could, and for her to embrace that love and use it to shield, comfort and lead her into her future.

A future that she might one day share with him.

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**AN2: - The next chapter will be set during and after 'Canary', and features a lot more Ziva than I'm used to (I find Tony's mindset just so much easier to write). I am also, against my better judgement, going to give writing some dialogue to go with it. A whole scene. That should be... fun?**

**Anyway – this current chapter: I know it feels unfinished, I'm acutely aware of it myself to the point where it nearly pains me to post it without the next chapter up and ready to go. I'm so stuck on it, though... maybe some feedback would help... :P Gah, I'm only three stories in, is it too early to just blatantly ask for reviews? Just like, one or two words would do, though if you've got the time I do love those long ramble-y ones too (as I often leave that kind behind myself – I regret nothing!) But, yeah, whether you do decide to review or not I am grateful that you (yes, you) took the time out of the day to read this :D. Just... y'know, hint hint :)**


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